


Braids

by KestrelShrike



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABELLAN, F/M, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intimacy in common things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Braids

Late afternoon sunlight slanted through Skyhold, dappling it with shadow. Shiral strode across the courtyard, a book firmly clasped in one hand, footsteps quick and assured. She had found an interesting tidbit about ancient elvhen culture in a book, but it was impossible to verify the truth of it. Abelas would know, if he was in the mood for answering, if he had not drawn inside himself again.

What did he even do this time of day? She knew that sometimes he trained, lean frame coated with sweat. How had she neglected to ask him how he was settling in? All day long, Shiral had sat in the War Room, trying to untangle the politics behind the gifting of Antivan wine. Josephine had been quite adamant in its importance, that the Inquisitor could not afford to make any errors. Whatever Abelas was doing, it had to be more interesting than that. Fighting had been far easier to handle than politics. 

Standing before his door, Shiral found herself taking a deep breath, a flush that had nothing to do with her quick pace making her face discolored and blotchy. She put it down to the day’s frustrations, unwilling to even consider that a single person could make her red like this- especially not a relative stranger, who had been in Skyhold for only a month. 

“Come in.” Abelas’ voice was calm, not unhappy. Good. Shiral pushed open the door, and immediately dropped the no doubt priceless book, leaving it to land on the floor with a dusty thud. 

He was absolutely dripping wet. Abelas had evidently just bathed, and had not yet bothered to put on a shirt. He wasn’t self conscious, though he was facing away from her. Torn, Shiral tried to imprint his musculature in her mind before hastily glancing to the side in an attempt to be polite. The Inquisitor probably shouldn’t stare like a hungry virgin. She was the woman who had fought Corypheus and won. Trying to reconcile that with the heat suffusing through her body was a struggle. 

A grunt of frustration snapped her out of the spiral of anger at herself. Abelas had long fingers that should have been dexterous. Instead, his white hair was unbound, tangling in and among itself as he attempted to braid it without looking. It was still wet enough that individual strands separated themselves in delicate twists and turns that stuck to his skin, like a second vallaslin. He started again and again, but the hair slipped through his fingers each time. His shoulders started to grow tense. 

“Do you… need help?” It made her itch just to watch him struggle with something she could do so easily and quickly. 

Abelas started and turned to face her, his shoulders still raised in a defensive posture, before relaxing in miniscule increments, breath by breath. He was so utterly absorbed in his task that he had already forgotten she was at his door. 

“I do not require your assistance. Just give me a moment.” Shiral bent down to pick up the book, eyes still glued to him as his fingers wove in and out with increasing haste, mistakes becoming larger and more obvious. Small knots were appearing. Soon, he would literally tie his hair together. 

“Here, just let me.” Putting the book down with care, Shiral moved forward. Abelas bent his head forward, obliging her, tolerating this intrusion into his personal space. 

When she first took up a piece of his hair, Abelas flinched and stepped away, though he stepped back immediately. She paused, unsure of what to do, but he seemed still after that, and didn’t voice any protests. In that brief lapse of time while she waited, she studied the way his vallaslin curved around the planes of his body, following it organically, a melding of flesh and ink that could have been entirely natural. 

Slowly, she interwove every white lock, some more golden, some more grey, catching the last of the light as it filtered through the windows. She worked quickly, efficiently, falling into the rhythm of getting it as perfectly neat and straight as possible. Under her deft hands, Abelas relaxed, his body slightly slumping forward, the sensation of fingers running through his hair relaxing as few other things could be. 

All too quickly, it was done. The braid was as neat as Shiral had ever done. Wordlessly, Abelas handed her a piece of leather to tie it in place. 

“Thank you. I am unaccustomed to asking for help.” The moment was broken. Abelas stepped away, sliding a linen shirt over his head, and Shiral went to fetch the book from its place on the floor.


End file.
